


breakeven

by fizzjam



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Cunnilingus, F/M, Vaginal Sex, damn fizzjam back at it again with the fanficton tropes, extra self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 04:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10297091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzjam/pseuds/fizzjam
Summary: you learn when you're very young that jack morrison of overwatch is your soulmate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm just gonna write all the cliches and tropes apparently and you know what i'm okay with that. i'm oscar the grouch, i'm cranky and filthy and live in a trash can.

The first time you remember having the dreams, you’re young, still young enough to need a night light, and it’s nothing like your parents said it would be. They spin it in that sugary soft way for children, about how special the dreams are and how you have them your whole life, even after meeting your soulmate. You want to experience them more than anything, to slip into the skin of your soulmate, whoever it is. Hindsight being what it is, you often find yourself wishing they’d been a little more upfront about the true nature of soulmate dreams.

 

Your first dream is of the Omnic Crisis you see on the news. It’s a horrifying battlefield, carnage of every imaginable type lying at your feet, circuitry and bone gleaming the same way in the sparse light of gunfire. You have to fight, you have to _survive_ , the safety of the entire world hinges on your success here today, and it’s the only thing you think, repeating, even as your muscles grow tired and your injuries stack up. You lose too many teammates, kill too many omnics, and the battle only stops with the arrival of a massive artillery shell, and as it explodes and knocks you back hard enough to shatter a limb, the only thought you have is _which side fired it_?

 

When you wake up, your left leg is screaming in pain so excruciating that all you can do is cry and beg your parents to make it stop. You’re in a cast later in the day, your leg bone broken in two places, and you think back to the dream, the smell of earth and melted steel, the feeling of the artillery shell knocking you back, and you understand a little better what soulmate dreams really are.

 

That night, on television, you see a man in a cast similar to yours being awarded for bravery in battle. Unbidden, emotions rise in you, ones you aren’t sure are yours. _I didn’t do anything special_ , you think, angrily, _I did the same thing everyone else did_. You’re so livid, so angry and bitter and upset that you tear up, unable to do anything else. Your parents walk in on you shouting angrily at the television, crying in frustration.

 

“He didn’t do anything special!” you shriek, turning to look at your parents with furious eyes. “They’re rewarding him for surviving! Most of his teammates are dead and he’s getting a medal because his body held out on him, the super soldier program kept his heart pumping.” Your parents are genuinely dismayed, trying to calm you down, unsure of what to say.

 

“You know what they won’t let him say?” you ask, absolutely livid. “The artillery shell that killed three of his teammates and broke his leg, it was from our side!”

 

\--

 

The second dream comes a few years later, much less emotionally harrowing than the first. It’s an office, glass walls and windows, large and imposing. The view is stunning, overlooking the garden you’d ordered planted in the memory of all of your fallen comrades. This is it, this is the new headquarters, heralding a new era of peace. The pride that fills your chest is almost overwhelming; you promise to the garden below your office that you’ll do a job worthy of their sacrifice.

 

The next morning, it’s all over the news, every headline: Jack Morrison has been named Strike Commander of Overwatch.

 

\--

 

One of your classmates discusses animatedly the dream she had about her soulmate, how he’s an artist, a sculptor, and he designed the sculpture outside of Overwatch Headquarters in Switzerland. The other students ooh and aah and coo over her, jealous of her future prospects, and you just sort of glide in on air, smiling as you say, “my soulmate is a war hero. They made him commander of Overwatch.”

 

Your classmates guffaw and brush you off. “Yeah right,” one boy says next to you, “and mine’s Ana Amari. If you’re gonna lie, at least make it convincing.” You become upset and begin spouting information you’ve learned from dreams and weird backwash emotions, about the artillery shell and the garden, but they promptly begin to ignore you. There’s more you could share, like about Gabriel Reyes and Blackwatch, and their newest acquisition, Jesse McCree, but the urgency of the emotions surrounding them stops you. No one is supposed to know about Blackwatch.

 

You think of the promise Jack Morrison made to the garden, about doing a job worthy of their sacrifice, and so you bite your tongue and let them think you’re a liar.

 

\--

 

The third dream is the worst.

 

Gabe goes public with Blackwatch (this thought cannot be yours; you have never once called Gabriel Reyes anything but his full name) and the whole thing shits the bed. You dream of a horrible fight, between two former friends and colleagues, and you keep wondering to yourself _what the hell happened, Gabe_? You don’t know who he is anymore. The Gabriel Reyes you knew would never have done this, never risked everything for personal glory, but here he is, doing precisely that.

 

You realize too late that you’ve done precisely what you said you wouldn’t do: let it all go to your head. Being Strike Commander somewhere along the line became more important than doing a good job, caring for teammates. Maybe if you’d gotten your head out of your ass, you could’ve seen Gabe struggling and done something about it. What if you’d stepped down, let him have the Strike Commander position?

 

The thing that wakes you is a massive explosion, so real you can feel the fire burning your arms as you reach out to brace yourself.

 

You wake feeling physically ill, unable to move yourself from your bed. When you flip on the television, you’re greeted with news of unspeakable horror: Overwatch HQ has been demolished in an explosion, and Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes are dead. Immediately, you flip the television back off and lay in bed and cry, your body protesting its own existence. You want to die yourself, if nothing else to stop this horrible pain. This is what a soulmate dying feels like, you think miserably, like you yourself are in the process of dying as well. You just want to sleep, preferably forever, or at least until your body reaches some kind of equilibrium and leaves you alone.

 

\--

 

You still find yourself experiencing strange dreams and backwash emotions, having thoughts you know can only belong to Jack, and while it’s extremely frustrating at first, you grow used to it, and appreciate that in this way, you keep a little part of him alive. Sometimes it’s like you still feel him, because there’s this strange lingering feeling of sorrow, specifically for you. You realize only as an adult that he was probably aware of you, too, and that he’d been aware of what effect his death would have on you. It’s… touching, honestly, that at least someone somewhere cared that deeply for you.

 

Too little too late, you think, but the knowledge is still comforting.

 

\--

 

The Overwatch recall summons you. You aren’t sure what happens, precisely, but you show up at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, unable to resist the pull. Honestly, you don’t have a clue what you plan to do once you get there, but you have to be there, something in your gut says you do. It’s still weird soulmate emotions, you decide, and you think again of the promise Jack made to the memorial garden and know that there are far worse things you could be doing with your life than joining recalled Overwatch.

 

When you arrive, you do so nervously, unsure of what, exactly, you have to offer, but knowing you want to help nonetheless.

 

The person that greets you is Ana Amari herself, and you’re struck by how you’re able to remember vividly her age progression, like you yourself were there to witness it. “Uhm, hello, Ms. Amari,” you greet nervously, even though the weird Jack part of you wants to call her Ana, “I’m… I’d like to join up? If you’re accepting new applicants.”

 

She smiles wryly. “Why don’t you tell me what kind of skills you can offer us?”

 

Your brows furrow. “I have a Master’s degree in Computer Science, specializing in Cybersecurity,” you tell her slowly, because spouting off about being Jack Morrison’s soulmate seems like it’d be a piss poor skill to offer. “I know tons of sensitive information comes through here and I’d like to help protect it. If you’re looking for someone with combat specialization, though, I don’t think I’d be much help.”

 

She directs you to Winston, who seems overjoyed at the thought of having someone to help Athena keep things secure. There’d been a break-in recently; your arrival is almost serendipitous. “More than you’re even aware,” you say jokingly, even though you’re totally serious. Again, you keep the whole soulmate thing to yourself, because it seems entirely out of place here. You’re here to help, above all else, after all.

 

\--

 

That night, you have the first real dream you’ve had since Jack’s death. It’s so vivid, so real, walking the halls of the Watchpoint like you’ve known them for years, and what startles you in this dream is that you happen upon yourself, you recognize the messy workstation and array of pop figures and Sailor Moon stickers set up on the computer screens. This overwhelming sense of relief and excitement comes over you, and the only thought that breaks through is _it’s her, that’s her_ , echoing and repeating over itself, so loud it’s all you can think about. You approach yourself with every intention of touching, just one, just to feel, just to confirm the person you’ve known your whole life is real and not just in dreams, but just before contact is made, you wake with a start, sweating and confused and still overwhelmed by emotions that aren’t yours.

 

Jack’s dead, you remind yourself, has been dead. Your body got used to this, _you’ve_ gotten used to this.  Your heart pounds and your head hurts a little, straining to encompass and process the cornucopia of emotions and sensations. That dream has, by far, been the most real and vivid, and you have to remind yourself that Jack’s dead.

 

So you tell yourself that it’s wishful thinking or the dream of Jack’s ghost, loitering around the Watchpoint to make sure Overwatch stays on the right path. Your stomach hurts so much and you feel like you need to throw up or eat or both, you can’t decide.

 

You heave yourself out of bed and go looking for something to eat, hustling into the kitchen to shove your face full of what’s left of the homemade beef jerky Lucio had been kind enough to leave unsupervised. It eases the strange stomach cramps and gives you something to focus on other than the dream and weird emotions you thought you’d left behind. There’s comfort in knowing someone’s going to chew you out tomorrow for eating the last of Lucio’s culinary experiment.

 

“Don’t think he’ll appreciate you double fisting his cooking like that, agent.”

 

You look over to see Soldier:76 in the doorway, fully dressed despite the wee hours of the morning, visor glowing in the dim lighting. You’ve met him precisely once, from across the hall, during Pharah’s grand tour. He’d waved and moved on, and from what you gathered, didn’t really care to cross paths with some data cruncher. He had missions and stuff to go on, and you had firewalls to erect and test.

 

“First rule of communal living,” you tell him through a mouthful of chewy meat, “if your name isn’t on it, it’s fair game.” He snorts, but whether or not he thinks your joke is funny isn’t clear. You sigh and zip the bag back up, placing it next to the stove where he’d left it. “Did you decide to come make sure no one ate all of his cooking or what?”

 

There’s a long pause. “Couldn’t sleep,” he concedes finally, “kept having strange dreams.” You give him a knowing look as you fish a bottle of water out of the fridge, taking a long drink before turning to look at him.

 

“Those happen,” you tell him, “a lot. Was it a soulmate dream or…?”

 

Again, he goes quiet, for longer this time. “Yes,” he answers, quietly, almost like he hopes you wouldn’t hear. You wonder what kind of soulmate Soldier:76 has, and how being a wanted vigilante affects his ability to see them in person, if he’s ever seen them in person. In that moment, you sympathize, and give him a soft smile.

 

“I know how weird those can be,” you tell him softly, leaning against the counter and taking another drink. “The first one I can remember having had been during the Omnic Crisis,” you begin, a wistful look in your eyes, “during one of the battles. An artillery shell knocked him back and broke his leg, so mine broke, too.” His shoulders stiffen a little and you figure it’d been shock. It sounds pretty gruesome being repeated, now that you think about it.

 

“My first was my soulmate being born,” he replies slowly, and you can tell this man isn’t used to opening up to people. You can’t imagine what he’s gone through, so hesitance like this is to be expected. “It was surreal. I got to see her being born, got to see her parents name her. Still wish to this day I’d gone to see her then.”

 

It’s your turn to pause thoughtfully, tapping the cap of the bottle against your lower lip. “Maybe you can see her now,” you tell him softly, “I don’t think it’s ever too late. She’s alive, right? I’m sure she’d be happy to see you, 76.”

 

His posture speaks of discomfort, shoulders squared and tense, feet shoulder’s width apart, like he’d been trained to stand like that his whole life. “I’ve done a lot to hurt her,” he mutters, so quietly you almost can’t hear him, “more than I can reasonably ask forgiveness for. I regret daily that life dealt her such a crap hand, ending up with me as her soulmate.”

 

Your brows furrow, suddenly mildly peeved at the kind of shit he’s saying. “My soulmate died before I could meet him, and I would _kill_ to be able to see him just once.” You stand up straight, regarding him with hard eyes. “So stop with the pity party before it’s too late and go see her.”

 

The air is tense, and for a moment you’re sure he’s going to break into a lecture about how lecturing a superior officer on personal matters isn’t your business, but instead, he reaches up, and presses a button to remove his visor. Beneath the visor is a man with striking blue eyes, unmistakable after the years you’d spent watching them on television. In disbelief, you stare at him, mouth agape, water bottle dropping to the floor from your hand.

 

“No,” you whisper, almost unable to process things as they happen, “it can’t be.”

 

He looks… grim? Happy? You can’t even tell. The longer you stare, the more you feel, the more you feel his emotions that you’re so used to feeling: longing, regret, grief, and you know he thinks he’s never done right by you. In an instant, you can tell he’s aware of every time you thought about him, every time you’d whispered his name and looked for the day you could meet him. “I saw your obituary, I went to public vigils.”

 

“I know,” is all he says, and you simultaneously hate him and are overjoyed he isn’t actually dead. Those two words say it all, and you aren’t sure how the hell to react. You’ve waited your whole life to tell him everything you’ve saved up, and now that you’re here, you can’t even speak. “I’m so sorry, (y/n). You were—you were too good for someone like me.”

 

“So what,” you begin, voice raising, “you were just gonna go on living and pass me by? I came to Overwatch because of you, I didn’t kill myself to stop the pain after Switzerland because I thought of that stupid promise you made to the memorial garden outside your office!” You step up and slap him, hard, hoping to impart all of the pain and suffering you’d gone through after you’d thought him dead and before, for the broken leg he’d given you as a child, for the fact that after that he planned on never seeking you out. “Get your head out of your ass, Jack!”

 

And then he kisses you, and everything in the world simultaneously aligns. You can feel every parsec of cosmos as it relates to your placement in it, can see stars at the edge of the Milky Way galaxy that have gone supernova, whose light is just reaching earth now. The physical contact ignites a connection so deep that you can feel everything he feels as he feels it, and you can’t help but cry. “You’re the worst,” you tell him, knocking fists against his shoulders, “the absolute worst, how the hell could you let me think you were dead for so long?”

 

“I’m sorry.” It’s all he has to offer as he kisses you again, pulls you close and drinks deep, gloved fingers pulling at the cotton of your sleep shirt like he hopes to bypass it entirely and simply bring you into him whole, until your heart is beating against his, muscle on muscle. You’re scrambling to unzip his jacket and wiggle in closer, up against the heat of his chest. He smells of pulse ammunition and petrichor, deep and earthy, and it’s the most comforting scent, like you’ve spent your whole life wrapped in it. All he has is apologies and you don’t want them anymore, not when there’s lost time to make up for; instead, you’re sliding fingertips beneath the shirt he’s in beneath his jacket, touching firm muscle that jumps beneath his skin, and he’s pushing you back against the counter.

 

You can tell he wants to take this slow, savor the feeling of finally having you against him, kiss you until you’re trembling, but you’re too restless for it, ready to stampede at the slightest provocation. Instead, you lift your sleep shirt and drop your panties, motioning for him to follow suit. Instead, he hoists you onto the counter despite your protests and drops between your legs, hot breath on your thighs in a way that makes your heart beat twice as hard.

 

When his tongue strokes the underside of your clitoris, you moan his name and squirm, his mouth so hot that it burns. He holds you down against the counter as he does it again, then dips lower, traces the length of your entrance then swipes at your clit again. He grunts, and you’re suddenly filled with this feeling of satisfaction; you can taste yourself on your tongue and _fuck,_ you taste good, even though you aren’t even sure you really do. You’re intimately aware of the fact that he’s thought about this more than once and the thought makes you groan.

 

When he goes even lower, strokes over your perineum with his tongue, you squirm again, unable to hold still with desire this strong rolling through you. You clutch at his hair and he holds your thighs open securely, repeatedly stroking over you until you’re frustrated. Then and only then does he use his thumbs to spread you open for further exploration, slipping his tongue between your lips and into you, and your head falls back against the cabinet behind it. Amidst the flurry of emotion, you understand that you need to be quiet, lest you wake someone up. The kitchen probably isn’t the best place to be doing this.

 

In the same space that thought takes up, you also know you don’t have the patience to head back to your room or his, so you cover your mouth and mash your tongue up against your palm in an effort to remain quiet.

 

His focus shifts to your clit almost exclusively, taking the soft pearl between his lips to suck hard and you’re coming before you can even catch up with yourself, squealing and squirming and bucking against his hold as it washes over you all at once. He pulls away, chin slick with your release, and the sight makes your gut twist. You’re sliding off the counter as fast as you can push yourself, practically flinging your body into his as you reach down for his fly, practically breaking his belt open to pull his cock out.

 

He’s searing hot and pulsing in your hand, so hard that you can almost feel the ache between your own legs. Wasting no more time, you turn, bend over the counter, and tug your sleep shirt up over your ass, presenting him with access. “No more waiting,” you tell him over your shoulder, “there’ll be time for romance later. I’ve been waiting my whole fucking adolescence for this.”

 

Jack can’t help but chuckle as he takes your hips and lines himself up. “Sorry for making you wait then, sweetheart.”

 

And then he’s inside you, and the universe itself aligns for a second time. “I love you,” you breathe, words slurred, “I have since my leg broke.” He grunts, his pace slow, meant to savor the feeling of you so tight and hot around him.

 

“I loved you the day you were born,” he says, voice like whiskey over gravel. “Spent my whole life feeling like I was broken—everyone else had dreams but I never did. Then you were born, and I got to see it, got to feel the world itself come into existence that day. I knew all along what kind of heart you had and I—I just—”

 

You feel tears on your back. Jack’s crying and so are you. “Couldn’t bear to hurt you more than I already had. You knew better than anyone what kind of man I wanted to be and I let everyone down, especially you.” His movements are harsh, speaking of the anger you feel in your chest; he has never forgiven himself for Switzerland, for letting his pride get the better of him.

 

You feel the head of his cock lodged against your cervix and the pressure is delicious, edged with just the right amount of pain as his girth stretches you to your limit. Dizzily, you reach between your legs to stroke at your clit, cheek pressed against the chilly tile of the counter. “You’ll have plenty of time to make up for it,” you tell him, dazed, tongue almost hanging out as you try to suck air in. “You’re stuck with me, Jack.”

 

His movements pick up, grip on your hips so hard that you know he can feel it on his own hips. Orgasm approaches like a freight train and you don’t want to stop it, only want it to hit you full-force like it hits him as you work fingertips over your engorged clit. “Gonna come,” he growls, and you whisper over your shoulder at him in response.

 

“I know.”

 

When he does, he groans your name loud enough that you’re worried someone’s going to wake up. Before you can warn him, however, he’s pulling one hand away to remove his glove and shove your hand out of the way, stroking furiously at you until you come again, bucking and writhing and mewling, better than every dream you’ve ever had about him. When he pulls out, you feel his release drooling out of you, smearing across the insides of your thighs, and you simply pull your shirt back down as he tucks himself back into his pants and straightens himself out.

 

The light in the kitchen turns on just after you’re both mostly straightened out, and there stands D.Va, looking both suspicious and more than a little upset that she’s awake. “Alright, which one of you is making all the noise?” she asks, and both of you look at each other and shrug.

 

She gives you both a look of sleepy contempt before she turns and leaves, and it’s only then that you notice your panties are still very much on the floor, where she probably saw them.


End file.
